


reasoning made lucid

by impossibletruths



Series: until the dawn [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Extended Scene, F/M, Just A Lot Of Unresolved Tension, Meaningful Hand Massage, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, The Anchor (Dragon Age), The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 23:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17990930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: A moment’s privacy, and a dance long in the making.Or, the Inquisitor and the Commander dance at the Winter Palace, and around their feelings while they’re at it.





	reasoning made lucid

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt _brushing hair out of the face_. originally posted to [tumblr](https://cityandking.tumblr.com/post/183201213757/reasoning-made-lucid). title from "movement" by hozier.

Afterwards she escapes to one of the balconies. After the plotting and the murder and the unmasking both literal and figurative; after Leliana has made preparations to see Florianne to Skyhold and Josephine has slipped away to speak with the new Orlesian leadership about what comes next; after Morrigan has sought her out to speak her piece and disappeared again––after the whole messy affair has been seen to, blood and guts and gold and all––she carves herself a moment of privacy as best she can. The one she has chosen looks out over the gardens, dark now that the evenings events have come to a close, more or less. And to think not an hour before she had been fighting through them.

She feels a little bad for the topiaries. Only a little, though––some of them were hideous, and the fire damage could be considered and improvement.

There is no fire now. The only light upon the balcony spills from the tall, narrow windows behind her where the festivities continue in spite of the near assassination. It glows gently, firefly-soft, masking the truth of the hornet’s nest they have thoroughly kicked over tonight.

Maker. She presses her fingers against her eyes until she sees spots. She hates the whole damn thing, and the buzzing hive most of all. Orlesians and their  _fucking_  Game. As if their politicking were above the delicate weave and weft of the rest of the world. As if the lives of their people were something with which to play. The whole thing gives her a headache.

Her hand aches too, anchor flaring up after the evening’s events as it has taken to doing more recently. One more irritant to contend with. She rubs at it idly; her gloves cannot quite hide the sheen of muted green that bleeds from her palm. She finds it amusing, almost. No matter how nicely they dress her, no matter how many accolades they lay at her feet, the truth outs eventually.

The charade suddenly irritates her; she tugs the gloves off and leaves them lying on the balustrade so she can massage her palm. The skin around the mark is an angry red tonight, warm to the touch, and the ache creeps outwards to settle in her wrist and the joints of her fingers. Rubbing at it helps only a little. She resists the urge to lay her forehead against the cool stone railing before her and stares blindly out at the garden instead, at the pinprick stars dancing just above the horizon.

Even in the momentary privacy of this little balcony she must play her part, hold herself together. The Inquisitor upright, unbowed despite everything. 

Still. The evening cannot end soon enough.

The door creaks open behind her, music and chatter of the crowd both growing louder for a moment without glass and wood to muffle it, and she jumps to be caught hiding on her own and chasing pointless wishes. But it is only the commander. The prickling edge of guilt fades.

“I had wondered where you got to,” he says. She turns to face him more fully, dragging her attention back to the present as best she can. It's difficult; it has been an unbearably long night.

“I only needed some air,” she returns, and the lie holds because it is laced through with the truth. She needs far more than a little air, but she will take what she can get. “Can I help you, Commander?”

He folds his hand neatly behind his back. A report, then. More business for the evening; it never ends. She waits.

“Florianne is in our custody and under guard,” he says. “Leliana will see she leaves for Skyhold in the morning. We have people sweeping the palace, but I believe you have dealt with any trouble for the evening.” His expression twitches as he says it, something that could almost be amusement bleeding through.

“Ah.” At least the chaos has been contained for the time being, she supposes. She means to voice the thought aloud, she does, but scrounging up the energy to make such a light, meaningless comment escapes her. Instead she leaves her remark hanging in the air and returns to her blind gaze out over the gardens. Her fingers rub at her palm again, trying to work away the tension, the ache. The exhaustion.

She feels Cullen’s hesitation in the air behind her and thinks for a moment he will retreat, but instead he moves up next to her, bracing his weight against the balcony.

“How are you holding up?” he asks into her silence. There is an unexpected gentleness to his voice; it catches her unawares and she cannot think up a lie in time.

So instead she is honest. “I'm tired,” she tells him, leaving her aching hand alone to rest both of them against the cool stone. The breeze picks up, raising goose bumps up her arms. It is a welcome relief from the crushing heat of the ballroom, from the aching heat in her hand. “It’s been a long night.”

“For all of us,” he agrees. “And you especially. We owe this victory to you.”

She purses her lips. She appreciates the compliment for what it is, but... “It doesn’t feel much like a victory. Not with so much left to do.”

“There’s little to be done about it tonight.” His scar pulls his smile crooked; she catches sight of it out of the corner of her eye. “In fact, Josephine has threatened to find me a dance partner if I don’t leave the soldiers to their work, and I am certain she would extend the threat, Inquisitor or no.”

“Maker,” she says, unwinding despite herself. “Save us from determined ambassadors.”

He snorts indelicately, out of place amid the careful propriety of the ball. She appreciates that. “If you would care to try your luck against her you’re welcome to.”

“I’ve had enough political maneuvering for one night,” she returns. “And I could never best Josephine in her own arena.” She hopes never to try. Josie is more than a formidable opponent and she is grateful daily the woman works with the Inquisition and not against it.

“No, nor I,” Cullen agrees. Vesper watches him slantwise as he stares resolutely out at the darkness and an inkling of an understanding settles in her mind.

“Is that why you have retreated out here?” she asks him, wry, and the hand that comes up to rub the back of his neck proves her hunch correct.

“Strategy would suggest I remove myself from her line of sight before I find myself on a stranger’s arm for the remainder of the evening,” he says, equal parts rueful and resigned. He hesitates. “I hope I have not–– If you would rather be left alone...”

“It’s alright,” she replies to the trailing question. She does not mind sharing her moment’s privacy. Not with him.

“I–– Alright then.” He offers a slight smile, and she returns it a gently as she knows how. His hand finds the back of his neck again.

She turns back to the gardens, rubbing idly at the mark. The movement catches his eye; his smile slips away. “It pains you?”

“A little,” she admits. “It is worse when things are...” She does not know a delicate way to put it. “Busy.”

“Busy,” he echoes, eyes crinkling at the corners. She shakes her head, and he laughs. “Yes.”

“It will ease,” she assures him, and herself too. “It always does.”

“Here,” he says, and he reaches one hand out, palm up, a question. “Let me?”

It takes her too long to understand what he means, and it does not take her long enough. His face is open and guileless, the only lines across it born of concern, of his quiet brand of care. She holds out her hand.

It is strange to touch him. They are always so careful, moving around each other in a strange dance that has garnered raised eyebrows from Leliana and quiet smiles from Josephine, and Vesper has pretended to ignore both. She has always had precious little in this world. She fears to misstep and ruin something still growing, to hold too tight and break it before its time.

It is strange––or perhaps the word is intimate, though she does not linger on the thought too long––to touch him without gloves, nothing between them but calluses and old scars and worn skin. His hands are cool, almost cold, and concern flares in her for a moment, except that it soothes the angry flare of the anchor, heat buried between bone and sinew.

He turns her hand palm up, green of the anchor casting shadows across the bottom of his face, and carefully––and firmly too, measured and sure––digs his thumbs into her palm, working through the tension there. He presses into the meat of her thumb, works his way up each individual digit, and she feels the tension bleed away. Her arm goes loose, and then her shoulders, and then her neck. She sighs in spite of herself.

He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on her hand as he works, turning it over now and then, unspeaking. She watches him just as steadily, the tick between his brow and his unchanging gaze and his fingers, the silvery scars across his knuckles that catch the light of the anchor. She does not speak either. She dare not shatter the moment, and she fears her voice might. Fears even the slightest motion might set is askew. She hardly dares to breathe.

The commander is a guarded man, clad in armor in every way. To see him outside it seems a precious gift, and she means to treasure it as long as she can.

Finally, though, his fingers still, her hand cradled between his, and he dares to look up at her. His eyes are dark in the muted light of the anchor, of the ballroom, of the prickling starlight. She meets his gaze steadily. He swallows.

“Is that better?” he asks, barely loud enough to hear above the distant strains of music from within. Vesper nods once and searches for her tongue. It takes her some time to find it.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He does not let go of her hand. She does not want him to.

Within, the music changes. She looks to the doors at the same time he does, and so almost misses the way his expression shifts. Almost.

“I may not have another chance,” he says quietly, and when she turns back to face him she finds him bowing. Her heart leaps in her chest.

“Commander––”

“May I have this dance?”

He is like a painting, bent before her, his uniform all sharp lines, his hand still carefully, oh so carefully, holding her own. The fall of light from the palace windows turns his cornstalk hair to spun gold and sets his eyes to gleaming. She swallows.

They have danced around each other so long. Perhaps it is time to put it to music.

“You may.”

He straightens, stepping closer without another word. She knows the proper way to hold herself after many long lessons from Josephine, they themselves reminders of hours spent with her siblings and their tutors learning steps and turns before–– Before. The commander is taller than Josephine, and taller than Florianne too, even in her ridiculous heels, and Vesper’s arm rests easily on his as he sets his hand against the span of her back. For a breathless moment they stand there, his face tilted down to her and hers up to him, her hand resting in his, the calluses on her palm catching against the fabric of his jacket.

It would be the simplest effort to close the space between them. It would be impossible.

The shift of his weight is warning enough, and she matches him as he pushes forward, falling back an equal distance. He moves in smooth, sure steps, and she mirrors him with near perfect grace. Together they turn wide, slow circles around the balcony, moving in three-quarter time with the music. Every point she touches him is electric: the press of her fingers against his and the spread of his hand against her back, the smooth line of his shoulder and the way their legs almost tangle together, almost, as they move in harmony, in equilibrium, forward and backwards and together, never straying, never any closer nor further apart. The world around them blurs; the frets and fears of the evening slip away like a half finished watercolor, smearing to abstraction. There is only the quiet music, and the glow through the windows, and the privacy of the balcony, and the dance.

It is like nothing she has known before. She feels frozen in amber, as if they might exist in this moment forever.

But they do not, and the song ends, and so too does their dance. Moving is effortless, and yet she finds herself short of breath as they stand there, utterly still except for the way her heart thrums. His eyes do not leave her face, nor his hands her body, nor he her space.

She wants––suddenly, terribly, impossibly––to kiss him, to press herself forward and fill the gap between them, to know the sound he will make with her lips sealed against his. She wants it with a desperation that terrifies her, and she cannot scrape together enough of her own spent better judgement to pull away. She holds herself there in equilibrium, in harmony; she holds herself utterly still with all she has in her. Amber-trapped.

“Inquisitor,” he murmurs, eyes on her face, her lips, and it is her title that reminds her of where they are. Of who they are, of why they are here in the first place, of their twined but not twin duties. She swallows hard and tucks her hummingbird heart away to consider at another time, a later time. A better time.

“Commander,” she returns, and steps back. He lets her go. She pretends she does not notice the flash of disappointment across his face. She pretends she does not feel the same. “Thank you for the dance.”

“Of course. It was my pleasure.”

“Much as I wish I could stay––” And she does, she  _does_ , she puts as much truth into that as she can and hopes he hears, hopes he understands–– “I am afraid I have been gone too long.”

“Back to work, then,” he says, and he sounds rueful more than anything, and she appreciates that more than he can know. He takes half a step toward her, hand outstretched, and tucks a loose lock of hair back behind her ear. She holds white-knuckle tight to her resolve and does not move until he has stepped back again, expression wry, and soft, and unbearably open.

Maker. Does he have any idea what he is doing to her?

“No rest for the wicked,” she manages, and if it comes out a little too tight, a little strangled, well, she does not think he will notice. He laughs, brief and barking, and holds the door for her as they enter the palace again. He bows briefly, bows low, and returns to his slow patrol of the balcony, leaving her a heart’s beat to herself to watch him go, to regret all the things she has left unsaid.

But only a heartbeat, for then the buzzing crowd descends upon her, offering up their congratulations, their veiled insults, their simpering and their swooning, and she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders and steps back into the role they so want her to play. The anchor glows at her side, drawing them like moths to a flame, and surely it will burn a few who get too close, but such is the way of things.

As for everything unspoken, well. It will wait another day.


End file.
